Chapter Text
Water crashed dizzyingly against the hull of the ship, spray bursting over the wood rim and coldly splashing against Navia Vilamir-Hyestryke’s hands. Wind whipped at her face and stung at her eyes. It was, if all was to be admitted, extremely uncomfortable. And that was before a titanic wave rocked the ship back and forth, causing her to grip the rail ever-tighter. She winced, crutches held awkwardly underneath her as she tried to hold herself steady on her one working leg.
Anyone who saw this might wonder why she wasn’t sitting quietly, dry and warm, inside of the cabin that was perfectly nice and comfortable. She, too, was wondering this, severely doubting her own sanity, when the blue-tinged silhouette of an island appeared through the fog. She straightened, risking lifting one hand to shade her eyes from the sun, and stared at it. Making sure it was actually there. Making sure that she wasn’t just imagining the end of this gods-forsaken journey.
Luckily for her, it was real, she was there, and the Faction Isles were practically at arm’s reach.
Well. Not really. She would still have to be on this boat- so small, compared to the ones she usually rode upon- for another hour or so.
She was so focused on the island, its beaches and spiraling rocky outcrops, the harbor just barely visible through the haze of evaporating sea mist that lay low along the water, that she did not notice the thing right in front of her. Navia tumbled with a rather inelegant yelp as a wave rolled underneath the ship, tipping her and her annoying crutches straight into the rail on the opposite side of the bow.
Navia groaned. She did not appreciate the dizzying way she had been jerked onto the railing. It had been all too similar to the way she had broken her ankle- except, if she’d actually fallen here, she wouldn’t have broken anything. One benefit of a small ship, she supposed- not far to fall.
A shiphand was dancing quickly towards her. Or rather, he was leaping from side to side to keep his balance, which rather gave the appearance of dancing, if you squinted and had recently had the wind knocked out of you.
The young man looked worriedly at her, and Navia suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be injured. Well. She was. And it hurt like all hell when she was doing the most boring, basic tasks, like, say, leaning against the handrail at the bow of a ship while waves pounded the rounded wood of the hull. She sighed, waving her hand in the best ‘no no, ignore me,’ way she could, and straightened.
”Perhaps you should, ah, come inside, m’lady?” The shiphand wrung his hands nervously, glancing towards the cabin. “The seas are rough around the harbor.”
”Perhaps I should….” She grumbled. “And none of that ‘m’lady’ nonsense. If you must, call me Hyestryke. Or better yet, Vilamir. I am supposed to be undercover, after all.” Navia picked up her crutches and swung her way over to the cabin, the man walking quickly behind her to keep up.
”Would you like help with the stai—” his words were cut off as she swung open the hatch, gripped the handrails, and launched herself down the stairs in one smooth motion, making sure to land on her good foot. The crutches clattered down beside her, and she hopped around to pick them up.
“No need. As you can see, I presume.” She grinned at him, sharply filed teeth glinting. “But thank you for your concern.”
In a few moments, she was settled on a bench by a porthole with a cup of tea, her crutches leaned up against the opposing chair. Now to sit there, enjoy her tea, and be patient. That would be difficult, she reflected, as she did not like sitting down, she almost never drank tea, and she was terrible at being patient. “This is nice. I’m definitely not bored out of my mind, noooo. Impossible.” She hissed to herself, quiet as a scorpion lying in wait for prey. Except her prey was the excitement of a new place, and she really had no need to be quiet and sneak up on it. Oh well. No matter. She’d be in the harbor of the Faction Isles soon enough, and then… well, things would get interesting.
She sat by the window and waited, remembering the way the Princess Crown sunk. The way the Abyssal Tyrant- rather, the Queen Ship- had rounded the edge of the island before the attack, out of sight. Remembered feeling worthless as her crewmates didn’t listen to her shouted commands, and remembered the blow to the back of her head that had sent her tumbling down, down, down, into the ocean.
Remember, little wyrm. You are not safe here. There are those who hate you and your mother, and others who grovel at her feet.
Be careful.